


starfu

by discopolice



Category: Wakfu
Genre: Gen, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 08:35:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13520556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/discopolice/pseuds/discopolice
Summary: In a few words, a gift given from one dead civilization to another.





	starfu

There is no gravestone for the Mechasms. This may be because it was not in their nature to build graves, only to build new members of society. This may be, though, because they died alone - only remembered by a civilization that, too, met its inevitable end. Regardless, the rock they once called home still spins around its sun, undeterred by the lack of life upon it. There is a city at its equator, all broken mirrors and crumbling I-beams and metal shells; twenty miles out, there is a figure resting in the greyish-brown ground.

Once, this was a Mechasm. Perhaps it was one of the grandest, the most noble, at one time. Now, it lies half-covered in rocky soil, a mottled patina of green covering the few areas that haven’t rusted over. There is a hole wasting in its chest, around the waist-joint, large enough to reach into and grab a handful of earth from inside - large enough to rip out its heart, if it were to have one. The tubes and wires are snapped, eroded, otherwise terminated. Remnants of gears and springs poke like sprouts from the ground, but not a hint of blood.

Within this cavity, someone has placed a cube - some transient visitor, leaving a gift to this civilization that will never be able to accept it. Anyone familiar with the glyphs inside Mount Zinit would recognize this cube, although those familiar with the glyphs inside Mount Zinit are a dying breed themselves. (An unremarkable feature on a planet that has since laid down to rest - just like this, just like this landscape here.) It is dimmer than it once was - you cannot take from which there is nothing to take. Perhaps it is fitting for an artifact forged by a traitor, an artifact which sucked wakfu endlessly under the pretense of ambition, that it rests where it can sap no more. Sand has battered its surface, wearing its spirals smooth; water from the recent rain beads atop the metal, orange with rust, blue with a wakfu fingerprint like a distant memory.

The soil, though, is richer under this Mechasm’s shell.  From the holes in its skull, aperture-like eyes that will never see again, a vine has begun to wind out - an orbit around the nose-bridge, one under its chin, as though urging this dead soul _don’t look so down. There’s hope._

Around it, for now - lone and level sands.

**Author's Note:**

> as it turns out, I haven't written anything in approximately 10,000 years


End file.
